


Assorted short Hankcon fics!

by Molias



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Camping, Feelings, Hand Jobs, Hand Kisses, Kisses, M/M, Nightmares, Stargazing, hank singing, lap time, the HUG, the stars as a beautiful and uncaring void, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-01-23 21:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molias/pseuds/Molias
Summary: A collection of little nibbles in the form of short threads fromtwitter, with more to be added as I format them or write new ones. These are all standalone chapters, unrelated to each other. I've rated this overall work E because one of the chapters is absolutely explicit but many of these are more in the G/T zone. If only we could rate individual chapters!
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 26
Kudos: 200





	1. Anniversary

**November 5, 2039:**  
Hank wakes up to the smell of coffee and the soft sound of a mug being set on the nightstand. There's a rustle of the covers, and Connor cuddles up beside him, slipping an arm around to rest his hand over his heart.

"Mmm, good morning, sweetheart," Hank says, voice rough with sleep. "Do I smell coffee?"

"I thought I'd bring you some so you could stay cozy in bed for longer."

Hank rolls over and kisses Connor on the forehead, then more deeply on his mouth. "Thank you, baby. You gonna keep me company here while I drink it?"

"That's the idea," Connor says. He settles his head in Hank's lap once he sits up and wraps his hands around the still-steaming mug.

"Perfect, as always," Hank says, after he takes the first sip. He means the coffee, really, but as he gazes down into Connor's dark, lovely eyes, he figures he might be talking about him as well.

"We have anything going on today?" he asks.

"Nothing specific," Connor says, and he sighs with pleasure as Hank starts petting his hair. "I just want to spend a quiet day with you."

"You're being awful sweet today, Connor."

"Am I?"

"Yeah."

Hank feels like a sap, but he's gotten better at embracing this part of himself over the past several months. He traces a finger over the curve of Connor's lower lip. "I'm not complaining, just thought I'd point it out."

Connor parts his lips, encouraging Hank to slip the tip of his finger inside, and sucks lightly at it. "I want you to be happy," he says, once he's let Hank's finger slide out of his mouth. He licks his lips.

Hank sets his coffee down and spreads his legs wide, pulling Connor up so he's sitting with his back against Hank's chest. He wraps his arms around him, squeezing tight the way Connor likes. "You make me so happy, I hope you know that," he says. "I don't ever want you to think otherwise. Am I not telling you enough?"

"No, it's not that," Connor says. He leans back and Hank can feel the moment he lets his body fully relax into Hank's embrace. "I've just been thinking about things, today. About how glad I am to have this." He gestures to Hank's arms around him, to the home they share. "To have you."

"Yep, you have me," Hank says. He nuzzles the back of Connor's neck and lets a hand wander down to knead at his thigh. "Now, what are you going to do with me?"

"I have some ideas," Connor says, and he shifts his hips, pressing back into Hank's growing erection. "But first, I--" he pauses, unsure.

Hank kisses Connor's neck and strokes his thigh gently. "What is it?"

"Do you know what today is?"

Hank's thrown by the apparent change in subject. "Should I? It's, uh, the fifth, I think?"

Connor moves to sit astride Hank's lap, so he can look him in the eye. "I met you," he says quietly, "a year ago."

Hank feels a hot rush of shame. "Fuck," he mutters. "I'd rather not think about that."

Connor looks hurt; the soft expression on his face smooths out into something more neutral. More distant. "Oh. I've been thinking of it as something to celebrate. I assumed you'd feel the same."

"Meeting you, knowing you," Hank says, carefully. "Loving you. I'll celebrate that. But I don't like to think about how I treated you that night. Who I was, then."

"You were hurting, Hank."

"And I took that out on you for no good reason at all. I don't need you making excuses for my failure to cope with my shit."

Connor wraps an arm around Hank's shoulder and kisses him softly. Sweetly. "I know we had a rocky start. I'm not trying to excuse anything. But as painful as it was, that first night still brought us here. That's what's important to me."

"Yeah," Hank says. "Okay. I get it. If I'm going to mark a date, I guess it would be the morning when things were all over."

Hank doesn't say "when we met at the Chicken Feed," or "when I held you and knew you were alive and thought maybe I could be alive again, too." But Connor knows, all the same. 

"I'll keep you in bed all day then as well, if you like," he says, slipping off Hank's lap and pulling him down beside him on the bed. He pulls Hank's shirt off slowly, trailing kisses up his torso as more bare skin is revealed. "But first, you wanted to know what I intend to do with you?"

Hank nods, and Connor flashes him a wicked, dangerous smile. "I'll do whatever I like."

"Please," Hank says, and pulls him in for a deep, messy kiss.

The rest of the coffee grows cold before Hank thinks to drink more, but strangely enough, he doesn't mind at all.


	2. Nightmares

Every week or two, for months, Hank has a similar dream: he's in the basement of Cyberlife Tower, surrounded by endless rows of still and silent androids that stretch off into the distance, but he only has eyes for Connor. Connor and...not-Connor. Someone else wearing his face. And every time, he realizes as the gun goes off that he shot the wrong target. He runs for Connor, picks him up in his arms (he's so light, somehow, like a child or a hollow-boned bird), and says he's sorry until Connor's soft brown eyes go dark.

He wakes up crying every time.

Once they're together, and Connor starts sleeping in the bed with him, it gets easier; he can reach for him, snuffle a bit as he buries his head in his chest, and know that Connor's right there with him. That he's safe.

Before that, it's harder. When the nightmare shakes him awake, Hank lies alone in bed and imagines how badly everything would have fallen apart if he hadn't made the right decision. Wonders if he'd even be alive. It's so easy for his thoughts to spiral out of control from there, thinking about every time the only reason he didn't entirely fuck everything up was dumb luck or bad reflexes or something else minor, out of his control. He thinks about killing Connor and it branches off into infinite bad decisions. 

One night, when Connor's only been staying with him for a month or so, Hank stumbles into the kitchen around 3am to get a drink of water after a nightmare and he stands over the couch for a few minutes, glass in hand, watching Connor in stasis. Making sure he's there. 

He thinks maybe Connor's aware of his presence; the soft pulse of his LED stutters a bit when he gets near. But he doesn't say anything about it, so neither does Hank. Not for months and months, until the first time he has the nightmare when Connor's in bed with him. He snaps to wakefulness confused and panicky; Connor's gently shaking him, calling his name, and his first thought is that it's not even him, that Connor's long dead and scrapped somewhere and someone else is in his bed, touching him. He shouts and almost falls out of bed. As Hank grabs hold of the headboard to right himself again, Connor turns on the bedside lamp and looks at him with concern.

"Were you having a nightmare?"

Hank isn't sure how to respond. For a long, wild moment, he's _positive_ this isn't Connor. He tentatively reaches out. Connor takes his hand with a squeeze, and tugs on it gently, leading Hank to lie back down. Hank's shaking, but he goes with him. Connor doesn't say anything else; he just pulls Hank close and keeps holding his hand.

Finally, Hank feels brave enough to talk. "I dreamed I killed you. Back in the tower, when I couldn't tell the difference between you and--and the other guy." He doesn't like to talk about him out loud.

"I'm here now," Connor says soothingly. "I'm okay. You didn't hurt me."

"I could have. I came so close."

Hank doesn't know how to tell Connor how sick he feels when he thinks about it, or when he thinks about pulling his gun on him at the bridge, just days earlier. Maybe, he thinks, he'll be able to someday, when this relationship isn't so new, doesn't feel so delicate. For now, he lets Connor pet his hair and murmur comforting words until he falls back asleep that night, once the light's been turned off again. Connor doesn't bring it up in the morning, and Hank feels equal parts relieved and anxious about it. 

Eventually he opens up about it more, bits and pieces over time. He hesitantly confesses to Connor that he's pretty sure killing him would have been the last straw, that it would have pushed him to transition his drunken russian roulette games into something more purposeful. It would have been too big of a mistake to excuse. Too painful. 

Connor tries his best, every time, to remind Hank that he's alive now, no matter what could have happened in the past. He opens his chest once and has Hank set his hand over his thirium pump to feel the slight vibration of it at work. "Remember this feeling," he says. "I'm here."

It helps, it really does, but it isn't enough. Until, one day, it is: there's a moment over a year later when Hank wakes up from a regular stress-dream, one in which his car had gone over a cliff when the brakes stopped working. When he jerks awake, heart racing, he realizes he can't remember the last time he had a dream about shooting Connor. The relief is so intense he starts laughing when Connor pulls him close to comfort him.

He falls back asleep with his hand pressed to Connor's chest, feeling the faint pulse of life flowing through him.


	3. Hand Kisses

Hank has always thought of his hands as clumsy. Big, meaty things too large and rough too handle something delicate. Something precious.

(The precise memory of how perfectly he could cradle Cole's tiny newborn head in one hand is one he's not ready to face, not yet, but he was a rare exception.)

But Connor doesn't agree.

"Hank, your hands," he pants one night, when they've silently, mutually agreed to draw things out as long as possible, making out lazily on the bed with their clothes on. Hank's never said it out loud, how much he loves when they take their time like this, but he knows Connor knows.

Hank has one hand teasing at the back of Connor's waistband, fingers dipping momentarily underneath to touch the bare skin of his ass before he pulls them back again. "You want me to go lower, baby?" he asks.

"No, I--I do, but."

Hank gives Connor's ass a little squeeze and he moans and wriggles closer. He grabs Hank's wrist and pulls his hand down from where it had been tangled in his hair. He nuzzles his cheek into Hank's palm, turns and grazes his teeth along the flesh at the base of his thumb.

"Do you know," Connor asks, "how often I think about you touching me? Sometimes..." his eyes unfocus for a moment, hazy with desire. "Sometimes I imagine a dozen hands touching me, all of them yours. Your fingers inside me, in my mouth, holding my thighs up, touching my chest. All over me." He takes Hank's hand in his smaller ones, hands that Hank thinks anyone would find beautiful and elegant, and kisses the palm, wet and messy like he was kissing Hank on the mouth. He turns it over and does the same to each knuckle. "Your big, gorgeous hands."

"I can't do all that at once," Hank says, but he squeezes Connor's ass harder, holding him still so he can grind his cock against his thigh and show him how much he wants to. "But anywhere you want me to touch you, just say the word. Tell me where to start."

Connor hums thoughtfully, then places Hank's first two fingers on his plush lower lip. "Right here," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for some short prompts on twitter while i was traveling; this is from @xHelasdottir's prompt "hand kisses."


	4. Stargazing

Connor had wanted to see the stars. He could easily access star charts and high-resolution images from observatories all over the world, but it didn't feel the same as he imagined it would to watch the night sky himself.  


Of course, it wasn't possible to see many stars from Detroit. "You'll never see much around here," Hank said, when Connor mentioned wanting to stargaze. Light pollution had steadily increased over the previous decades, and even though Connor's eyesight was more sensitive than most humans', he couldn't make out much more than the brightest stars in the sky, most nights.  


"It's all right," Connor started to say, but Hank shut him down before he could finish.  


"No it's not," he said. "You want to see stars? I know where we can make it happen, if you're up for a trip."  


Connor was most certainly up for a trip, especially one with Hank. They'd never traveled together; in fact, Connor had never left Detroit at all. He'd never before stopped to think about it, but once he did, he wanted even more to leave the city and see somewhere else. A piece of the rest of the world.  


"There's a park up north," Hank said, "that's totally dark at night. Perfect for stargazing, at least it was when I went there, which was a pretty long time ago. Should still be there, though. We could drive up for a couple days, stare at the sky at night, do some hiking during the day, maybe? I'm not young enough to sleep in a tent or nothing, but maybe we can rent a camper and rough it a little. Roast marshmallows and shit."  


Connor smiled. "That sounds perfect. If you're really willing to do this with me, I'd love to go there with you."  


"Eh, I probably need to get out of town for a little while anyway, just take a breather after the last few months, you know?"  


Connor nodded. They'd just wrapped up a particularly stressful case, and the more distance they could both get from it, the better. Plus, he enjoyed any chance to spend more time with Hank. Once they decided on it, the plan came together fairly quickly. Vacation time was approved. Hank found a small, cozy camper van to rent and dug a battered but still-decent pair of hiking boots out of the depths of his closet. Connor examined star charts to familiarize himself with what would be visible in late April, and tried not to fret as he watched the weather forecast that predicted cloudy skies for most of the weekend.  


They left early, when the day came.  


Connor watched Hank relax by slow degrees as they drove further from Detroit; tension melted from his jaw and shoulders and he even whistled along when particular snatches of music played over the car stereo. He looked good, Connor thought, illuminated by the mid-morning light and dressed in a loud patterned shirt unbuttoned over an old (and rather tight, truth be told, but of course Connor hadn't looked that closely because it would be rude) t-shirt. Connor felt a small, selfish kind of happiness that Hank had suggested this trip; clearly Hank wanted to go as well, but Connor was pleased because he got to see Hank, to enjoy being around Hank, in a new and different way. No one else was on this trip with them. Hank hadn't asked anyone else. Hadn't wanted to share this with anyone else. Just Connor.  


Connor knew Hank's social connections were few, at the moment, but that didn't stop him from preening just a bit. It made him feel special, whether Hank intended it or not.  


It was a moderately long drive, nearly five hours, but they'd started earlyenough that it was still early afternoon when they arrived. There were marked trails all through the park, but Hank was feeling restless after so long in the van and wanted to get moving without having to track down a trailhead or a welcome center with a map, so they trudged down to the waterfront and set off west along the shore.  


It was quiet along the water, but still Connor felt overwhelmed by the experience. "I think I need to sit down for a moment," he said, after they'd walked less than a quarter mile. "I'm taking in so much new information that I'm struggling to process it all."  


"Sure," said Hank, whose restlessness seemed to have already diminished considerably after the short walk. He led them to a long piece of driftwood on the shore, a tree trunk worn smooth from its time in the lake. He plunked himself down and patted the spot next to him. "Take a load off and just take it all in for a minute."  


So Connor did. He managed, with some difficulty, to stop the background processes he had on as a general rule, that scanned his surroundings for new information, because there was just too much information of a type he'd never encountered; taken all at once, it was just meaningless noise.  


But if he sat still, in companionable silence with Hank, it was something else.  


There were songbirds behind them, in the woods. Four different species he could pick out. Knowledge of songbirds wasn't something he had access to without running a query for it, and he had to remind himself not to. It was all right to listen to the birds without knowing which birds they were. And to admire the trees near the shore, their branches swaying gently in the wind coming from the lake, without knowing if they were birch trees, as he suspected, or not. The point, as Hank had said, was just to take it in, not to know everything about it.  


"Oh," Connor said, after several minutes of silence. There was no true silence here, he thought, due to the birds and the rustling of leaves and the soft slip of the lake's gentle waves against the pebble-lined shore, but he and Hank had been silent.

"What's up?" Hank asked, beside him.  


"It's so peaceful. It's quiet back home, sometimes, but not like this."  


Hank clapped him on the back and let his hand rest on Connor's shoulder, a comforting weight Connor couldn't help but lean into. He felt Hank flinch in surprise when he settled his weight against him, but before he could pull away or apologize, Hank tightened his grip just enough to make him feel welcome.  


"Feels good to be here." Hank said.  


Connor wasn't sure if Hank meant "by a quiet lake in the middle of nature" or "on a log with you half-cuddled into me," but since his response would have been the same either way, he tried not to determine which was correct. "It does. Even if we don't see any stars, the trip would be worth it for this, I think."  


There were some clouds drifting across the sky, but they were patchy and didn't block much sunlight; Connor had calculated a 71% chance of clear skies that night based on weather projections. Still, though, a statistically unlikely outcome was still possible, and Connor didn't want to miss his chance.  


"It'll be fine, I'm sure," Hank said. "Like you said, even if it's cloudy, it's still nice to be up here, but there's no way it'll happen the whole time we're here. You haven't been on vacation before, Connor, but rule number one of vacation is that you gotta relax."  


"I'll do my best," Connor replied, although he felt it was unfair for Hank to expect him to relax when he kept stroking his thumb across his bicep, where his hand had slipped when they'd settled closer together. Connor rerouted the processes he'd normally be using to identify birdsong to focus on the texture of Hank's hand through his shirt. His mind was a green whirlwind of birdsong, trees, shoreline, sunlight, and Hank.  


Eventually they continued along the shore. Hank shared some memories of the time he'd been here before, with friends one summer in his late 20s. Connor suspected it was a rowdier trip than this one was likely to be. It was strange, sometimes, to think about how Hank must have been in his younger days, but he appreciated the stories. He enjoyed anything that gave him a better idea of who Hank was, and who he'd been was part of that.  


It was late afternoon by the time they returned to the van. Hank hadn't eaten since that morning, so he got started building a fire in the designated area near where they'd parked. There was a tiny stove in the camper, but Hank insisted on doing his cooking over a fire. Nothing fancy; he tucked a potato wrapped in foil against the coals to be retrieved in a couple hours, and skewered some sausages on a stick to roast in the meantime.  


"It won't get dark, really dark, for a good while yet," he said. "Probably around 10:30. There's a strip of shoreline down the road that's best for stargazing and we'll take a blanket over when it's time, all right?"  


Connor nodded. He'd been quiet most of the day, absorbing new stimuli. Processing new information and emotions. Thinking about Hank's arm slung across his back. The good thing about spending time with Hank--or rather, one of several good things--was that he was rarely offended by Connor's silences. He understood that he needed to retreat inside himself, sometimes, or that he'd rather share a friendly silence with Hank than fill it with conversation.  


He suspected Hank was just about as comfortable with silence as he was, most of the time. Every so often they'd fight, or hurt each other by accident, and the silence between them would be tense and brittle until one of them would break it by force. But usually, it was like it was tonight: peaceful. Just like the rest of the world around them, Connor thought.  


He heard an owl nearby, as dusk fell, and allowed himself the indulgence of identifying the call: a barred owl. They were less common in this area than great horned owls, and Connor felt a strange sort of...wonder? gratitude? He wasn't certain, but it felt special, to sit with Hank, in front of a roaring fire as night fell, and hear an owl that few others would encounter in this same place.  


"A unique moment," he said, quietly.  


"What's that?" Hank asked. Hank was examining the sausages he'd been roasting, and he nodded, apparently satisfied, and slid them off the stick onto a plate.  


"I was just thinking," Connor began, but he wasn't sure what to say. That he felt emotional over an owl he hadn't even seen? That he was grateful to Hank for showing this place to him? That he wanted to sit close to him again?  


"About what?"  


Connor shrugged. "About how beautiful it is up here, I suppose." He went with what felt like the safest topic. "I appreciate you bringing me here."  


"Eh, don't mention it," Hank said, but Connor knew he was pleased. Hank struggled to accept thanks or compliments gracefully at the best of times.  


Time passed. Hank eventually dug his potato out of the coals and proclaimed it cooked enough to eat. He drank whisky and cola out of a speckled enamel mug, and handed Connor a matching mug full of thirium. "So you won't feel left out," he said, even though Connor'd never felt particularly left out when he watched Hank eat or drink anything. Still, it pleased him that Hank had thought of him when he'd picked up supplies earlier in the week.  


The forest grew darker around them, and the sounds changed along with the light. They spoke a little, but mostly stared into the fire, which Hank prodded with a stick every time it threatened to die out completely. The night was cool but comfortable, and Connor's face and chest were warm where he faced the firepit.  


Hank had looked good in the bright sunlight that morning, but here in the shadows and shifting firelight Connor thought he might look even better. The finer details of his face and body, which Connor quite enjoyed examining in most circumstances, were harder to make out, but his face was cast in warmth and the darkness outside the immediate glow around the fire made their small circle of light feel intimate and private, even more than the privacy the secluded forest afforded them. They were entirely alone in a way Connor had never experienced before.  


Finally, Hank glanced at his phone and slapped his thigh. "Looks like it's about time for the big show. You want to grab the blankets and lights from inside while I deal with the fire?"  


Connor found two soft, worn quilts folded on the sleeper sofa in the camper, with a pair of flashlights nestled on top. As a dark sky preserve, the park had rules about permissible lights near the stargazing areas, so Hank had bought red lights that wouldn't interfere with their night vision as much. They walked quietly and carefully to the shoreline; red light may not have messed with night vision, but it was much harder to see by and neither of them wanted to trip over an errant root or stone and turn an ankle.  


Once they left the cover of trees, Connor could clearly see that the afternoon's scattered clouds had fled; the sky was clear. As he stared upwards, his eyes adjusted and he started to see the stars above, but Hank patted his back to pull his attention away.  


"Hold off until we're there, so your first real look can be a good one." That seemed reasonable, so Connor followed him down the road and along the branching path that led to the shore.  


There were other stargazers on the beach, which surprised Connor at first since they hadn't seen anyone else since entering the park. There were only a few, though, spread out in small groups, so he didn't worry that his time with Hank would be interrupted.  


They walked past the other groups and picked a spot a short distance away before laying out the blanket. Connor started to set the second one down, but Hank stopped him. "It's colder out now, and we can both fit on that one, this one's for me. And I guess for you, if you're cold too." Hank knew Connor didn't feel cold unless the temperature was much lower than 52 degrees, which was the current temperature, but he appreciated the gesture.  


Connor stretched out on the quilt next to Hank and thought, as Hank settled the second quilt on top of them, that it felt like he'd imagined getting into bed would feel. He had imagined sharing a bed with Hank more than he'd care to admit, at least to Hank himself. He wasn't sure it would be welcome. Connor did his best to set thoughts of being in bed with Hank aside, and looked up.

His first thought, of course, was that the stars were beautiful. They were beautiful and there were so many of them, a number that only increased as his eyes adjusted and he began to see the stars between the brightest, most eye-catching ones in the sky. He looked up to see dozens of bright pinpricks of fire but the longer he stared, the more he saw, until he gave up counting and allowed himself to simply think "there sure are a lot of them" instead of insisting on calculating an exact number. He knew such precision was impossible.  


It was almost frightening, how many there were. How far away he knew them to be. Without thinking, he grabbed Hank's hand, holding it as if it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.  


"You all right, Connor?"

Connor couldn't break his gaze away from the sky, but he felt Hank's eyes on him in the dark. "I feel like I'm going to fall up into the sky," he managed. "There's so much of it." Neither of these statements quite captured how he was feeling, but Hank seemed to understand. 

"You aren't going anywhere," Hank said. "I've got you, okay? It's a lot to take in, but it only _looks_ like a great uncaring void you could fall into." He squeezed Connor's hand, and Connor found himself relaxing just a bit. "In reality," Hank continued, "it's, uh, you know, an uncaring void that you can't fall into at all. Also it's pretty."  


"How reassuring," Connor said dryly, but he found that he was comforted, at least a little, by Hank's words.  


"Come here," Hank grumbled, and he dropped Connor's hand in favor of wrapping his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as he had earlier. It felt much more intimate when they were lying down, though. Connor's head rested in the crook of Hank's arm and Hank's hand draped over his chest, a warm and reassuring weight. The panic that had been rising within him subsided. 

"I didn't expect that," Connor said, after a minute. "It's one thing to know the scale of the galaxy in an abstract sense and something else entirely to be confronted with it, I suppose."  


"Last time I was here," Hank said, "a friend of mine had a telescope, a pretty good one. She pointed it at some star cluster, I don't even remember which one, now, but I know it was something like 500 light years away. When I looked through that telescope and really thought about how far that was, and how old the light I was seeing from those stars was, I got vertigo so bad I had to sit down. So I guess I can relate, a little, to having a weird reaction to staring up into space." He patted Connor's chest reassuringly. "You feeling any better now, though?"  


"I don't feel quite so overcome with..." Connor still wasn't sure what to call it. "Whatever that was." He tentatively reached up and slid his hand underneath Hank's. "Do you recognize any constellations?"  


"Oof, I haven't done this in so long, I don't think I remember much. I think I see the Big Dipper," Hank offers, pointing overhead. "Did you download a star chart or something?"  


"I looked into what constellations would be visible at this time of year, yes. Would you like me to show them to you?"  


"Knock yourself out," Hank said, "but I'm not always great at seeing patterns like that."  


Connor pulled the quilt back far enough to allow his arm out so he could point overhead; as a result he found himself pulled just a bit closer to Hank, into the space his arm had filled. He felt so warm next to him.  


"Do you see that very bright star?" Connor asked, pointing to the southeast. "That's Arcturus." Hank made an affirmative noise beside him, so Connor used that bright point of orientation to point out Virgo nearby, and the yellowish glow of Saturn just next to the "head" of that constellation. "We can't see the rings without a telescope, sadly," Connor said.  


"Or the space hexagon."

Connor shot Hank a confused look, but he just laughed.  


"Look it up," Hank said. "Saturn has a hexagon on it."  


From Saturn, Connor directed Hank to Leo, then shifted their focus back to Ursa Major and Ursa Minor trailing behind.  


"I think I want to just look at it all, now," Connor said, after that. "Unless you really want more of an astronomy lesson."  


"Nah, I'm good," Hank said. "Thanks for showing me all that, though." He shifted a bit, pulling the quilt higher over his chest. "Are you warm enough? Is, uh, is this comfortable?"  


"Yes to both," Connor said. They watched the stars in silence, for a while. Hank was so still Connor briefly thought he'd fallen asleep, but his breathing hadn't slowed and evened out enough for that to be the case. The one time he looked over at him, Hank was looking back, with a soft expression on his face that Connor couldn't quite read. 

"Enjoying the view?" Hank asked, then. Connor nodded, and Hank smiled in response. "Me too."  


Connor heard laughter from one of the other groups on the beach, but even though he knew they were there, it still felt like he and Hank were alone. Huddled together in a nest of worn, soft blankets on a near-empty beach, under a curtain of stars so numerous and beautiful Connor still felt in awe of the sky above him, it felt like they were in some private universe that was theirs alone, untethered from the rest of their lives.  


Perhaps, Connor thought later, it was this feeling of separation and privacy that made him bold enough to speak.  


"Hank," he said, quietly, not sure how to continue but positive he wanted, as always, to begin with Hank. So many things came back to the simple fact of him. 

"Yeah?" Hank shifted, turning so that he was lying on his side, face turned to Connor's and just barely visible in the starlight.  


"I think--" Connor began, and paused for a moment, bracing himself for the possibility of a negative reaction but hoping desperately that such preparation would be unnecessary. The dark void stretched out above him, and once again he felt like he'd fall into it if he wasn't being held down.  


Hank just waited, watching closely. He was used to Connor taking a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking.  


"I think you should kiss me," he said, finally.  


"Do you, now," Hank said. He cupped Connor's face with his free hand and tapped his thumb against Connor's lower lip.  


"Only if you want to," he said. "Of course."  


"Of course," Hank repeated, his voice a soft, deep rumble. And then he leaned in and kissed him.  


Connor had, truth be told, imagined more desperate, heated kisses when he'd thought about kissing Hank. The kisses they exchanged under the stars had heat to them, to be sure, but they were slow and gentle; the desire for more simmered in the back of Connor's mind, but he felt no need to rush, to push them towards anything else but this.

He had a difficult time imagining anything could feel better than kissing Hank did, for one thing. Hank's lips parted gently as he pressed them against his own, and just that small point of contact flooded his system with a rush of information and sensory data. Connor moaned softly into the kiss and wrapped an arm around Hank's broad back, delighting in how solid he felt.  


Hank kissed the corner of Connor's mouth, the line of his jaw, and gently tilted his head to gain access to the column of his neck. Connor jolted at the touch of Hank's mouth and the brush of his beard against his neck.  


"Oh, Hank, I--"  


"Shhh," Hank murmured, right into his ear, and Connor shivered at the pleasure of having him so close. "It's not just us out here, remember?"  


"I can--ohh--I can be quiet," Connor protested, trying to maintain focus as Hank threaded his fingers through Connor's hair and kissed him again. He was, in fact, getting louder as it fully sunk in that Hank was not just kissing him, but doing so gently and thoroughly, better than Connor had dared to imagine, and breathing deep moans of his own into Connor's mouth.  


"Do you want," Hank panted, and Connor broke in with a _yes_ before he could complete the question. Hank laughed, then, resting his forehead against Connor's.  


"You have no idea what I was going to suggest."  


"I want it," Connor replied, not caring at all that he didn't know the details of Hank's request. In this moment, he was sure he wanted anything Hank might ask of him.  


"Fuck," Hank groaned, and kissed him hungrily, licking into his mouth as Connor opened completely for him.  


"Do you want," Hank tried again, a few minutes later, "to head on back? Maybe continue this on a real bed?"  


"I told you," Connor said, "yes. Yes to all of it."  


Hank chuckled as he pulled Connor upright and shook the sand out of the blankets. "Let's start with bed for now, all right? We can work out the rest in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short prompt from twitter; @heartbeat96 gave me camping + stargazing. This was meant to be another very short thread, but it got away from me! I have a lot of feelings about stargazing, and I had a pretty intense experience in Maine this past summer stargazing & doing astrophotography in what's maybe the darkest-skied park in the eastern US, and clearly that all fed into my imagination until this happened!
> 
> Also: yes, [Saturn's hexagon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn%27s_hexagon) is real.


	5. Embraceable You

Hank talks himself out of sending the message a half-dozen times, deleting it as soon as he's finished writing it out. Connor just saved the fucking day, he thinks. He's celebrating, or planning what comes next. He's with his people. He doesn't want to hear from me.

Still, he thinks about the brief moment they shared before Connor departed the tower with a small army of newly-deviated androids to meet with Markus and his followers. Everything was moving so quickly, and they'd only had a minute together, as Hank caught his breath and tried not to look at the RK800 sprawled out silent and still on the ground. He wasn't Connor, Hank had figured that out too late, but it made him feel ill to see someone with Connor's face lying dead on the floor.

"Try and stay alive out there, huh?" Hank had said, with a sincerity he hadn't known he still possessed. He'd wanted to reach out and grab Connor's hand, pat him on the shoulder, _something_, but he still felt shaken and awkward after his experience with the other RK800, and he'd let the moment pass by.

"I will, Hank," Connor'd said, seeming pleased to hear it. "And I'll--I'll see you again. Afterwards."  


And then he was gone.

Hank tells himself Connor didn't truly mean he wanted to see him. He was being polite. Hank had been an asshole at best for much of the investigation. Perhaps that's part of why he wants to reach out. He understood far too late that he'd been wrong about androids. 

About Connor.

He'd had far too little sleep and far too much to drink the night before, after he'd gotten home, so he figures he can blame the message he finally sends on his exhaustion and hangover if Connor's annoyed he tried to get in touch.

>I saw the news, congrats  
>hope you're safe

He's surprised by how quickly he gets a response.

>>**It's good to hear from you, Hank. I'm unharmed.**

Unharmed is good, Hank thinks. It's odd phrasing, though, and Connor chooses his words carefully, as a general rule.

>everything ok?

>>**I'm fine, thank you. I left Hart Plaza after the demonstration was successful. The few people still on the streets seeking to harm androids are easily avoided, now that peace has been officially established.**

>you're just wandering the streets by yourself?

>>**Yes. I wasn't sure I should remain with Markus and the others, given my initial function.**

Hank stares at his phone for another long minute before he types another question and tentatively hits send.

>do you want company?

It takes a little longer for the response to come through, this time.

>>**I'd like that very much.**

Connor sends over a map link with his current location marked on it.

>>**I'm near the Chicken Feed, could you meet me there?**

>sure thing, I'll be there in ten minutes

It's closer to twenty, because no one's been out to plow the roads and Hank takes a couple detours to avoid anything that looks like a checkpoint, but the lot in front of Chicken Feed's empty when he pulls up. He steps out of his car so he'll be able to see Connor when (if) he shows up, and paces back and forth to keep warm.

The squeak and crunch of his shoes in the fresh snow mask the sound of Connor's approach, at first, but eventually he hears the echo of his own steps and turns to see Connor striding across the lot towards him.

He doesn't wait for Connor to make his way over. Something in the small, vulnerable smile on Connor's face calls to him, pulls him in Connor's direction before he makes the conscious decision to take the first step.

Hank thinks, as they draw closer to each other, that he isn't sure what to say, what to do--he hadn't thought things out this far. He wanted to see Connor, and Connor seemed to want to see him, so he'd come.

There's a moment where Hank worries he's misjudged everything.

And then the moment breaks, as fleeting and insubstantial as a soap bubble, because it's the most natural thing in the world to open his arms wide and pull Connor close to him. As close as he can.

Connor melts against his chest, burying his nose in the collar of Hank's coat and wrapping his arms around his back underneath it, as if he's seeking warmth. Maybe he is, Hank thinks, if he's been out in the cold all night. "You did it," he murmurs into Connor's hair.

"We did," Connor says, as if he's still surprised by it all.

"And now you're here."

"Where else would I be?" Connor asks, weakly, and when he lifts his head to meet Hank's eyes, he can see tears threatening to fall.

"You're all right now," Hank says, because he has no idea what else he can say. He has no idea if this is true, but he wants it to be. Connor deserves to rest.

"I'm a mess," Connor says, and now he truly is crying. Hank pets his hair and lets him cry into his coat. "Every feeling I wasn't able to experience before, every emotion I was cut off from, is tangled up inside me and I can't understand any of it."

"Emotions are like that, yeah," Hank says. He shifts his weight awkwardly, wanting to stamp his feet to stay warm but not wanting to make Connor let go.

He's hesitant to speak the idea that comes into his mind, as he sways in place and lets Connor wipe his tears on his collar, but he figures he's gotten himself this far by reaching out, so it can't hurt.

"Do you have somewhere to go? To, you know, stay safe and warm up?"

Connor shakes his head. "I'm sure I can find something, but I don't have anywhere yet."

"You want to come to my place for now? I bet Sumo wants to see you again, and if you, uh. If you want to talk about any of what happened, I'm willing to listen."

"I think I'd like that very much, Hank," he says. "But I'd like to stay like this for a moment longer, if you don't mind." Connor's arms tighten against Hank's back.

"If you want a hug, Connor, we can do that at home," Hank says.

"Oh." Connor says it like he hadn't expected to ever get the opportunity again.

"Yeah, and I won't be freezing my balls off there, so if you're up for relocating..." Hank tentatively loosens his embrace, and Connor does the same. He wipes his eyes a final time with the sleeve of his own jacket.

"Thank you, Hank," he says, as they turn towards the car. "I wasn't sure you wanted to hear from me, so I'm glad you reached out."

"Of course I did," Hank grouses, nudging Connor's shoulder with his own. He understands why Connor would have thought that; hell, he probably would have said the same, only a couple days ago.

So much had changed.

Connor had changed something in him. He isn't sure where things have settled, or what it all means, yet. But for now he's just happy to realize he wants to understand, wants to chase these feelings, and see where they take him.

Maybe he and Connor can figure out some of their own answers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this thread on November 12 (aka Hankcon Hug Day) even though I was rushing around prepping for an international trip, because it's an important day!! No way could I let it pass without marking the occasion.


	6. Santa, baby

The only reason Hank does it is because he's a little drunk. 

A little drunk and a lot horny, and he's spent four hours at Ben Collins' wonderful Christmas Eve party dividing his attention between shooting the shit with his friends and looking at Connor's ass in his tight candy-cane-print leggings, wondering how soon he'll be able to peel them off once they get home. December's been hectic, with work and the holidays and Hank trying as hard as he fucking can to keep himself from spending it drunk and miserable like he has the last few Christmases, and they haven't had sex in a week at least, and god damn but Connor is handsome. And Hank is in love with him, he's just barely tipsy, and now that they're home he just wants to get his hands all over him and pull him into bed, or onto the floor, or whatever. He's not picky right now, he just _wants_.

Something about the dorky Santa hat Connor's been wearing all night calls to Hank and they moment they've taken their coats off, he wraps his arms around Connor's waist and pulls him close. He brushes his lips against Connor's ear, tickling his neck with his beard. "Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree," he sings, his voice a deep, rough rumble.

Connor stiffens and nearly drops the keys that are still in his hands, but Hank just laughs and keeps singing, swaying gently where he's pressed up close behind Connor and kissing the side of his neck at the end of each line. He runs out of verses he knows all the words to but is determined to do his best with the half-remembered rest of them; there's something about a platinum mine, and a yacht, but mostly he wants to grind against Connor's ass and croon like a deep-voiced Eartha Kitt in his ear and see how much he can ruffle Connor's feathers.

The thing about Connor, Hank's figured out over the past four or so months, is that while he can be hard to coax a reaction out of, when Hank _does_ manage to get one, he knows it's going to be something to remember. Hank's not thinking too much about what he wants to happen, because he just wants Connor, any way he can get him. He's not angling for anything in particular.

When Hank stops to take a breath, Connor leans back against his shoulder and turns his head to give him a kiss on the cheek. "If I'm Santa," he says, "does that mean you'll sit on my lap?"

"You don't think I'm too big for that?" Hank asks. Connor doesn't dignify that with a response, and Hank figures that's fair, considering that Connor doesn't seem to think "too big" is a phrase that could possibly apply to Hank in any way.

"Come here," Connor says, taking Hank's hand and pulling him to the couch. He sits and pats his lap invitingly. "There's plenty of room for you."

Hank straddles Connor's lap, wincing as his knees creak a bit but eventually settling in a comfortable position. He looms over Connor like this, but he knows Connor enjoys anything that highlights Hank's size. He braces his arms on Connor's shoulders and leans down to give him a kiss, when he gets an unexpected smack on his thigh. Arousal jolts through him, but before he can do more than grunt in surprise Connor says, "I don't think that's the proper way to sit on Santa's lap, is it?"

Oh. 

This isn't the same as Hank singing as close he can get into Connor's ear, trying to wind him up. This is something else.

Hank rearranges himself to sit across Connor's thighs, with an arm slung around his shoulder and Connor's hand on his waist, holding him in place. He hasn't tried to sit like this since...well. Probably since the last time he got taken to a mall Santa when he was a kid. It's weird, and awkward, and he feels ridiculous, but Connor's gazing at him with such intensity that Hank decides not to care. He waits for whatever's coming next, but after a few seconds he suspects he's the one who needs to make the next move. 

"Connor," he says, hesitantly, hoping he has the right idea, "I've been." He swallows. "I've been a good boy this year." It comes out more like a question than a statement, and he's certain he's blushing from the tips of his ears to his collarbone.

Connor licks his lips and smiles. "You have, haven't you, baby?" He purrs. "Good boys get a special treat." He slides his hand up Hank's thigh and rests it lightly over Hank's cock, nearly fully hard now. There's no movement once it settles there, just a gentle pressure. It's both a tease and a promise.

Hank gasps at even this light touch and tries to press up against Connor's hand, but it's hard to get leverage when perched on his lap. He rests his forehead against Connor's. "Have I been good enough?" he asks, and again he feels heat rise to his face; this isn't the sort of thing he asks Connor, even though the question rattles through his mind constantly. The answer he wants isn't something he can admit he needs to hear.

"You know you're my good boy," Connor murmurs, and Hank moans, a tiny sigh of release. "You're so good for me. What do you want in your stocking, baby?" He squeezes Hank's cock and Hank tries again to rock his hips upwards, seeking more friction. "Or do you want me to choose for you?"

"Please," Hank says. He doesn't know what else to say; he just wants whatever Connor wants to give him. 

"Undo your pants for me, sweetheart."

Hank scrambles to comply; he wrenches open his belt and fumbles at the button on his pants with unsteady fingers. Once his pants are open and the fly pushed apart, Connor pulls Hank's cock out of his boxers and gives it a few slow, firm strokes. "Beautiful," he says, and Hank has to close his eyes; he can't look at Connor if he's going to say things like that. 

Connor licks his palm and smooths his thick saliva along Hank's cock, and the slick slide of his hand with the additional lubricant is so good Hank feels his toes curl. 

"Jesus," Hank pants. "Fuck, Connor, you--" his words dissolve into a groan as Connor tightens his grip. 

"You've been so good for me all year, Hank," Connor says. "Is this what you want?" Hank nods, his arm tightening around Connor's shoulders and his thighs tensing. Connor lets go of Hank's cock and pinches his inner thigh gently; Hank twitches and groans, and Connor waits for him to open his eyes and look at him before he puts his hand back on his cock again. "You need to keep being good for me, honey," he says. "Is this what you want?"

"Yeah," Hank sighs. "Fuck yes."

"Thank you, baby," Connor says. "My good boy."

Hank whines, then, a loud desperate sound, and he doesn't have it in him to be embarrassed about it: his fat ass is hanging off of Connor's lap because he can barely fit, and he's already told Connor he'd been a good boy, while Connor was wearing a fucking Santa hat no less. There's no room left in him for further embarrassment after that. Instead, Hank feels a calm, unselfconscious freedom as he bucks up into Connor's hand the best he can and whines and growls and kisses the side of his face while Connor strokes him and murmurs sweet praise.

Connor tells him, again and again, how good he is, how handsome, how big he is and how much Connor likes that, how good he feels in Connor's hand, how Connor felt Hank's eyes on him the entire party and wanted Hank as badly as Hank wanted him, because he loves Hank that much, his sweet Hank, who's so good for him every day--

At some point it all runs together in Hank's mind, a stream of words so precious he can hardly bear to examine them too closely; when the pleasure's become so intense it's nearly unbearable and Connor finally allows him release, the stream overruns its banks and Hank finds himself crying, just a bit, as he comes. Connor gentles him through it; he keeps touching Hank until he's close to overstimulated, then pets his back and shoulders as he sags all his weight onto Connor and tries to get his heart rate back to normal. He's still crying, just a bit, and as he wipes at his eyes he tries to remind himself that there's no room for more embarrassment, that it's fine. 

"Was that all right?" Connor asks, finally, as Hank's breathing steadies and slows to its regular pace. 

"I came all over you, didn't I?" Hank says. He knows that's not what Connor asked, not really, but he already feels scraped raw; a little deflection while he gathers his thoughts won't hurt anyone.

"Hank. Sweetheart." Connor's voice is gentle, but Hank knows he's being serious. "You're crying. I need to ask."

"I'm fine, just." Hank wipes the last of the tears from his face. "Where did all that come from?"

"You're the one who serenaded me with a song about Santa and a platinum mine," Connor says, in mock exasperation. "I don't know what else I could have done with that."

"Yeah, okay, but. The rest of it."

"Was it too much?"

"No," Hank says automatically, then reconsiders. "It was, maybe, but I think I needed it. Thank you." He captures Connor's mouth in a slow, deep kiss, and suddenly feels selfish when he realizes Connor's still fully dressed and Hank's barely touched him at all. "What do you need? I want to take care of you, too."

"This is more than enough, Hank." Connor combs his fingers through Hank's hair. "We have all day tomorrow for more, if you want, but I wanted to focus on you. I don't need anything more, tonight."

It had taken a while, when he and Connor first became intimate, for Hank to understand that while Connor was more than capable of coming when they had sex, he didn't always feel the need for it; sometimes, the other sensory input he experienced would be just as enjoyable. There were times when all Connor wanted was to wreck Hank completely and take a record of his pulse the entire time, or to suck him off and run a detailed analysis of his semen while his eyes went slack and hazy with pleasure; when Connor assured him this was just as satisfying to him as an intense orgasm was to Hank, the only thing Hank could do was believe him. Despite his general impulse towards sexual reciprocity, Hank had learned to accept when Connor didn't want it, or wanted to postpone it until later.

"As long as you let me fuss over you in the morning," Hank mumbles, suddenly very tired. It had been a long night, after several long, hard weeks. "Lemme eat you out or something."

"Of course," Connor says. His fingers scratch against Hank's scalp. "You were wonderful for me tonight, Hank. Thank you for letting me tell you so. I know that's hard for you."

"Everything's hard this time of year," Hank says, deflecting again. "Has been for a while now. You were here last year, you know how I get."

Connor nods. Hank still feels a deep well of shame in his gut when he thinks about how he acted last December, only weeks after he let Connor move in because he had nowhere else to go. Only weeks after he'd _met_ Connor. He'd put up with so much more from Hank than he had any right to expect, and somehow he'd stayed. Even after seeing Hank at his worst, so many times.

"You being here, though," Hank says. "With me. It helps. I don't feel like I deserve any of those things you said to me, but it's still good to hear."

"I'll have to keep telling you until you believe it," Connor says. "As many times as you need me to."

"Thank you, baby," Hank says. He tugs on Connor's hat. "I mean, Santa baby." He stands up, stretches, and pulls Connor up from the couch. "The sooner we get to bed, the sooner I can spoil you in the morning." 

What a relief, Hank thinks a half hour later, when he and Connor are tangled together in bed and Connor's already slipped into stasis, his LED a slow, shifting pulse of light reflecting against the ceiling, to feel something other that dread and despair at Christmas. Something more than anger. For the first time he can think that next year, it'll probably be better.

He watches Connor, face slack in stasis as it would be in sleep, and hums a few wordless lines before half-singing, half-whispering into his hair. "_I really do believe in you, let's see if you believe in me._" The wonderful thing, Hank thinks, as he slips into sleep, is that he already knows the answer.


	7. to be seen completely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank doesn't hide the fact that he's trans, he's just not great at talking about it; it always feels awkward, so it's easier not to. But when an uncomfortably familiar name pops up on television, he realizes he needs to ask Connor a potentially uncomfortable question about how much he knows. Connor, of course, is a total sweetheart about the whole thing.

Hank is entirely unprepared for the bolt of terror that shoots through him, on his regular Wednesday night hangout with Connor to watch the Gears game (Hank), fuss over Sumo (Connor), and shoot the shit, when a new sportscaster introduces herself at the start of the broadcast. Hank hasn't worried about that name, his old name (although it had never felt like it was his, not really, even when he didn't yet know why it hung so awkwardly on his broad shoulders like an ill-fitting shirt), for years; the constant dread of it slipping out of someone's mouth, of having to grimace and say "that's me" when a nurse called it out into a busy waiting room, of having anyone look at him and think a name other than Hank, had faded long ago. Folks he knows now either never knew it or pretend they've forgotten.  
  
But Connor, he realizes, might know. If his scanning capabilities are thorough enough to return personal details and criminal records, surely Connor could see that name hovering over him from the moment they met.  
  
He imagines Connor's view of him even now as a marquee overlaid above his head, endlessly scrolling HANK ANDERSON, BORN XXXXXXXXXXXXX ANDERSON, SEPTEMBER 6, 1985.  
  
He tenses, flexing his hand, and noisily crushes a dent in his nearly-empty can of beer.  
  
"Is everything all right?" Connor asks, because of course Hank can't have an emotional reaction to anything without Connor noticing.  
  
He glances as the television; the new sportscaster is continuing her pregame commentary, her name still prominently displayed on the chyron at the bottom of the screen, but surely even though Connor noticed his reaction, he couldn't know exactly what he was reacting to.  
  
Hank wonders if Connor would even realize it was information Hank didn't want him to know. He doesn't care if people know he's trans, doesn't try particularly hard to hide it, but feels so awkward talking about it that he sometimes winds up in the closet by accident. He hasn't told Connor, not directly, but Connor's seen the inside of his medicine cabinet and he's seen his bare chest, once, with its thick pink scars from back before surgeons figured out how to keep them pale and flat so they'd eventually fade away.  
  
Connor has to know that much about him, and that's fine. It's good, even, Hank thinks. But the thought that he knows that other name, the one Hank still never says out loud if he can help it— and has known for over a year, perhaps—sits like a heavy stone in his gut.  
  
He doesn't want to ask.  
  
He has to.  
  
"It's nothing," Hank says, when he realizes he's let the silence stretch between them for too long as he stares at the sportscaster on screen. Connor knows he's lying, he's sure, but hopefully Connor also knows, by now, that Hank deflects those questions out of habit, but is slowly coming around to the concept of giving a genuine answer.  
  
Eventually.  
  
He waits until she's no longer on screen, because if Connor doesn't know, for some reason, he doesn't want him to make the connection, reveal the thing he wants kept secret by accidentally shining a spotlight on it. He finishes his beer. Connor kneels on the floor next to Sumo and rubs his belly while his tail thumps against the leg of the coffee table. When he settles back on the couch, he seems to sense Hank's restless anticipation and turns to him with an inquisitive look.  
  
"Is something on your mind?"  
  
"I gotta ask, and look, if you know it, don't fucking say it, okay? But I need to know."  
  
Connor looks concerned now, beyond the mild concern of suspecting Hank wanted to discuss something. "What do you need to know?"  
  
Hank covers his face with his hands for a moment, presses against his browbones with his fingertips. The commercial break is over, and he turns to face Connor before he can see which of the commentators will lead them into the second quarter.  
"Your scanner thing," he starts clumsily, "that shows you all sorts of information about people, right? Personal shit."  
  
"I don't know that I'd classify it as personal," Connor says. "I can make inferences about people's personal habits and preferences, but the data from my scans is more general than that."  
  
"Stuff they wouldn't tell you otherwise, yeah?"  
  
Connor looks puzzled, almost offended. "I can access someone's criminal record if they're in my facial recognition database, Hank, but I don't access that information, unless I need to. Outside of work I don't run those scans, as a general rule." He purses his lips, and now Hank does think he's offended him. "I'm not interested in needlessly violating anyone's privacy."  
  
"You'd see if they'd changed their name, though, right? Without even looking too hard for it."  
  
"Oh." Connor's response is soft and so gentle, so understanding, that Hank isn't sure what to do with it. It's one more soft moment with Connor he doesn't know how to handle, because it makes him think about things he shouldn't want.  
  
He presses on. "And I know you've used that scanner shit on me a few times at least."  
  
Connor nods.  
  
"So," Hank continues, pushing forward even though part of him wishes he'd never asked, now that the answer seems so obvious, "you've seen it, then. What mine used to be."  
  
"I have," Connor says, and Hank slumps back into the couch, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He can't look at Connor right now. It's not his fault, of course it isn't, but the admission feels like a punch in the gut, all the same.  
  
"Well, shit," Hank says, scrubbing his hand over his face again. Now that he has his answer, he isn't sure what to do. "Just—just don't say it, all right?" he asks, finally. "Just pretend you don't know."  
  
"Hank," Connor says, with that same gentleness as before. He touches Hank's forearm, a soft press of his fingers to pull his gaze back in his direction, and lets his hand rest there even once Hank's attention is drawn back to him. "Hank. It's true that I saw it, the first time I met you. What your name used to be. But I don't know it any more. I don't have to pretend not to know."  
  
Hank peers at him curiously. "What, you just forgot? You don't forget anything."  
  
Connor fidgets with his free hand, fingers flexing and twisting at the hem of his shirt. "I can if I make myself forget."  
  
"What?" Hank repeats. Connor's said before that there are moments in his past he wishes he could forget. A figure of speech, maybe, or perhaps just a momentary desire he didn't truly want to act on, but he'd never indicated that this was possible. That he'd made that choice. "You can do that?"  
  
"It didn't feel right," Connor says, staring down at his lap. "Even when we first met. Before I was deviant, or when—" He sighs. "When I didn't know I was, I suppose. I wasn't supposed to be able to edit my own memories, but..." Connor shrugs. "Perhaps it wasn't a large enough change for anyone at Cyberlife to notice, or they weren't actively monitoring my internal processes."  
  
"And you can just wipe something out like that? It's really gone?"  
  
"It isn't like deleting a file from a computer, " Connor says. "The information is inside me, but it's encrypted and protected in a way that leaves it inaccessible, unless I make the conscious effort to undo that protection. To be honest, it would be quicker to look up your previous name in public records—which I wouldn't do," he hastens to add, when Hank tenses beside him.  
  
And Hank knows, of course he does, that if Connor did something as drastic to edit his own memories he wouldn't do that, but he couldn't help but flinch. Connor's hand, still on his forearm, gives him a reassuring pat.  
  
"I wouldn't," he repeats. "But it would be easier than undoing the encryption on that particular information."  
  
It's—it's incredibly sweet, Hank thinks. It might be the most romantic thing someone's done for him, and he knows it wasn't meant to be romantic at all. Still, it feels like the sort of grand gesture he sometimes wished for, when he was much younger.  
  
"I've adjusted my scanning function, as well," Connor says. "That information is no longer present if I use it." He looks appraisingly at Hank, eyes traveling up and down his torso as his LED flickers rapidly, and Hank has the sudden realization that being scanned feels a lot like being checked out.  
  
"Here," Connor says, when he's done, and holds out his hand; projected on his palm is a picture of his face and, yes, just his chosen name. His real one. There's a scroll of additional data underneath, moving so quickly he isn't able to pick out more than a couple words; he thinks "pulse" is there, as well as "size," but it all rushes by before he can determine the context for any of it.  
  
"You didn't have to prove anything to me," he says. "I believe you. But, you know. Thanks. I know I don't really talk about any of that, but, uh, the name stuff, that's really the only part I don't want you to know."  
  
"Not just you," Hank scrambles to clarify, worried for a moment he'll offend Connor again. "Anyone. That's not part of me anymore."  
  
"I always liked your name," Connor admits. "Hank suits you, I think."  
  
"Of course it does," Hank grumbles. "That's why I picked it."  
  
"Does anyone call you 'Henry?'"  
  
"My mom used to, sometimes. A guy I dated once liked to use it in bed for some reason." Hank shrugs. "I knew when I picked it out that I was always going to be Hank."  
  
"Hmm," Connor says. He's silent for a couple minutes, long enough that Hank tries to refocus on the game, although it's hard with Connor's hand still on his arm.  
  
He'd wonder if Connor had somehow absent-mindedly forgotten he was still touching him, but they had just established the amount of effort it took for him to forget anything. Even when Hank doesn't understand Connor's actions, he always seems to act deliberately.  
  
Just as Hank manages to aim his focus back at the game, after staring blankly at the screen for a minute, Connor breaks his silence. "When you said you don't talk about this subject, beyond the issue of your name, is that because it's unpleasant to discuss? Or are you lacking in opportunities to do so?"  
  
Connor hasn't named "the subject" yet, and neither has Hank, and he's struck with how goddamn awkward this topic always feels. This is why he doesn't talk about it, he thinks. He decides the game's a lost cause, at this point, so he fumbles for the remote and turns off the tv.  
  
"It's not unpleasant," Hank says first, because he doesn't want Connor to think he's doing something wrong by asking. "But you've known me this long, Connor, you know I don't like to talk about myself. There's no casual way to drop it in conversation. I knew guys who could be smooth with it, but I never learned how to talk about that part of myself without feeling like I was drawing too much attention." He can't get a read on Connor's expression, so he fumbles on. "It's not a shameful secret, other than the whole name thing," he says, waving his hand dismissively at the dark television before he remembers Connor doesn't know what brought this whole conversation on, "and even that's not shameful, it's just not shit anyone needs to know."  
  
"I think I understand," Connor says.  
  
"I'm not exactly drowning in people who want to know anything about me, lately," Hank says. "It's been a long time since I sorted this shit out, but even if I did have something to say, who'd want to hear it?"  
  
The answer, of course, is obvious the moment the question leaves his lips; Hank almost regrets asking. Almost.  
  
"I would," Connor says, quietly. His hands are folded in his lap, placed there when Hank started gesturing at the tv for what he's sure Connor thinks was no reason. "Not out of prurient interest, or a desire to invade your privacy, but because I want to learn more about you."  
  
"I'm interested in you," Connor says, and what the fuck does he mean by that?  
  
"Uh," Hank says, searching Connor's expression for any clues but finding none. He looks beautiful and earnest, which is how he usually looks when discussing personal matters with Hank. When he's trying to learn more about him.  
  
"If it helps," Connor adds, as if he's just come up with a brilliant idea, "while I know our experiences are not analogous, there is an important area of common experience between androids and the transgender community."  
  
"Oh, yeah? What's that?"  
  
"People love to ask invasive and inappropriate questions about the presence and configuration of our genitals."  
  
Hank barks out a short, startled laugh at this, and once Connor smiles at him he can't help but laugh again, because it's true and ridiculous and dear lord is Hank glad he has never given in to his intense curiosity and asked Connor about his entire downstairs situation. He wouldn't, of course, because just as Connor said he gets what it's like to field those unwelcome questions, and it's not his business to begin with, but he can't say he hasn't been curious. It must be the final release of tension after worrying about Connor and his old name, Hank thinks, because he laughs for longer than he has any right to. Maybe it's all right that he brought this up in the first place, that Connor is tentatively showing interest in knowing more about this part of his life.  
  
Connor still hasn't developed much in the laughter department, but he smiles again when Hank pauses for a deep breath and wipes a tear from his eye. "I didn't mean it as a joke," he says, "but I suppose it is a little funny."  
  
"A little, yeah," Hank says. His relief makes him reckless, and he flings an arm around Connor's shoulder, mumbles "C'mere, you," and pulls him close in a half-hug. Connor melts into him in a way Hank thinks he shouldn't let himself enjoy because of how right it feels. He places a hand at the top of the soft swell of Hank's gut and leans his head on Hank's shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world.  
  
"Thanks again for doing that for me," Hank says. If he turned his head to the right and leaned down just an inch or two, he could kiss the crown of Connor's head, brush his lips through his hair. He doesn't, but he's full of the awareness that he could. "I don't know how you knew how important that would be to me."  
  
"I didn't," Connor says, slightly muffled by Hank's shirt. "Not really. But it seemed important to me, even though I don't think I entirely understood why, at the time."  
  
"It was a real sweet thing to do, whatever the reason. I need you to know I appreciate it."  
  
"I do, Hank," Connor says. He turns his head to look up at him, and oh, it isn't the top of his head he could kiss if he leaned down, now. He thinks about holding his spine straight. No slouching, no leaning close.  
  
"I want to do sweet things for you," Connor continues. "You deserve it."  
  
Hank isn't sure about that, but. His mouth is suddenly very dry. "Thanks," he croaks out, and he barely manages not to turn it into a question. "I guess if you." He coughs and starts again. "If you want to talk about some of this shit with me, you can. I'm no good at bringing it up, I guess, but I'm not against it."  
  
"I'd like that," Connor says, "but for now I'd prefer to stay like this for a little while. If that's all right with you." He shifts and somehow manages to wiggle himself even closer, more of his body now making contact with Hank's. Hank has no idea how someone as tall and long-limbed as Connor can seem to fit so neatly against him.  
  
"Of course," Hank says, settling his arm more tightly around Connor's shoulder. With nothing on the television, no other excuse for why they're sharing the same space, there's nothing to distract Hank's mind from the fact that he and Connor are cuddling on his couch. He knows a good thing when he sees it, or when he feels it nuzzle his chest, so he does his best not to think too hard about what it means (or second-guess himself when he comes up with a strong possibility anyway).  
  
"Sure," Hank says, and this time he does let his lips graze the top of Connor's head, just a whisper of a touch. "We can stay like this as long as you want."


End file.
